The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar; "Now tread we a measure?" said young Lochinvar. VI. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." VII. One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung: "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scar; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. VIII. There was mounting'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee; But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? SIR WALTER SCOTT. POLISH WAR SONG. I. Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,-- Rouse ye in the name of God,-- Onward, onward, strong and steady,-- Dash to earth the oppressor's rod. Freedom calls, ye brave! Rise and spurn the name of slave. II. Grasp the sword!--its edge is keen, Seize the gun!--its ball is true: Sweep your land from tyrant clean,-- Haste, and scour it through and through! Onward, onward! Freedom cries, Rush to arms,--the tyrant flies. III. By the souls of patriots gone, Wake,--arise,--your fetters break, Kosciusko bids you on,-- Sobieski cries awake! Rise, and front the despot czar, Rise, and dare the unequal war. IV. Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,-- Think of what your sires have been, Onward, onward! strong and steady, Drive the tyrant to his den. On, and let the watchword be, Country, home, and liberty! JAMES G. PERCIVAL. CHAPTER II. SMOOTHNESS. THE VILLAGE PREACHER. I. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingled notes came softened from below; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,-- These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. II.